


Salad Glove

by levendis



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Mind Control, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 12:18:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2581232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>self-indulgent post-“Dark Water” nonsense. shhh no tears now, only Timesex. also sub!Twelve, because that is the light of my life and the fire of my loins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salad Glove

**Author's Note:**

> title is a completely irrelevant line from an Andrew Jackson Jihad song because I give up entirely

  
  
  
This isn’t happening. He refuses to believe it. It can’t be, it cannot possibly be real.  
  
But it is, obviously, and he’s known that since Missy first stepped out of the shadows, probably. Her Cybermen are everywhere, awaiting orders. The planet is spinning beneath his feet. His hearts are sinking down to his shoes. None of them know, all these people just going about their lives, they don’t know what’s about to happen. To be fair, neither does he.   
  
The sun is shining, children are laughing, the apocalypse is impending. He feels like maybe possibly he might be about to throw up. Something inside him trying to claw its way out, something unwelcome and far too familiar.  
  
Missy swoops close and puts an arm around his waist. They’re walking. He’d like to run away but somehow can’t, can’t do anything beyond putting one foot in front of the other, beyond carefully breathing through his nose.   
  
Just two Time Lords, having a stroll. He can regain the upper hand here. He always does.  
  
"Do you remember how it used to be? Back in the good old days?"  
  
"There were never any good old days."  
  
"Oh, but there were, my dear. We were so young. Filled with such potential. Then you ruined it all, of course. You’re always ruining everything. But I forgive you." She stops walking and turns to face him. "How could I not? As eager as you were to have me back. I haven’t been kissed like that in centuries."  
  
"You’re getting it all mixed up. I was taken by surprise. And I was under the impression that you were an android. Do not assume I share your obsession. You know nothing about me, Missy, do not presume to understand what’s - "  
  
She slaps him, square on the jaw, an expression on her face like _see what you’ve made me do?_ “I know everything about you. And you knew who I was. Of course you did. You just couldn’t admit it. And you - ” she pokes him square in the chest - “Kissed me - ” another poke, harder, and he stumbles away less than he might - “Back.”  
  
"No, I didn’t. You’re delusional. And you’re evil, and you’re not going to win." _Not the Earth and not me,_ he projects. _I will not let you win._  
  
She pouts, gives her umbrella a twirl. “I’ve already told you: it’s too late. Stop moaning, darling. It’s unbecoming.” The pout flips without much of a segue into a wild, teeth-bared grin, and then she pounces, slamming him back into the nearest available wall.  
  
He can feel her, through all their layers of well-tailored wool, he can feel her chest heaving and her hearts beating, can feel the core of her that’s always been the same regardless of physical presentation. And he can feel all the things that are different now. She grabs his ears and kisses him, open-mouthed and hungry, until he is much more distracted than is appropriate for mid-day on a busy London street.   
  
The world is ending and it’s all her fault, and he really does need to think of a plan to stop her. He needs to not be doing this. She pulls back and looks at him like he’s a slice of cake. Fake fruit on her hat clacking around. Little grapes and things. He looks at the hat instead of at her because this is not happening, and he is not here.   
  
"Let’s go someplace more private, hmm?" She snaps her fingers, and they are - elsewhere.   
  
It’s quiet, and dark, and a motor is humming. A rotor. A _time_ rotor. Oh no.  
  
Once again, he’s thrown against a wall, hard enough to knock all the logic out of his head. Except it’s a wall in Missy’s TARDIS and it’s vibrating, half-threatening, half-encouraging, like the ship is holding him, stroking him, sinking its teeth in. Missy is on him like an octopus. “I like this you,” she says, giving him an appreciative glance. “The last you was pretty and I do enjoy a bit of pretty, but there’s something to be said for a man who looks more, how should I put it - lived-in.” She ruffles his hair. “I like you grey and curly, I really do. I’m so _glad_ you’ve gone back to that.”  
  
He is screaming internally. He is undeniably grinding his hips against hers. Shameless, desperate, stupid Doctor Idiot.   
  
She grins again and flings herself away from him. “Do you like me?” She spins around, arms held out. “I’m quite proud of this body. It’s got class, panache, dangerous curves. Don’t bother lying,” she coos, putting a finger up to his lips. “I can tell you like it.” She tugs at his lower lip with her thumb, coaxing his mouth open; slides her other hand between his thighs and squeezes the erection he really, really, really wishes he didn’t have right now.  
  
"What’s my name," she growls.  
  
"Missy." Has she forgotten who she is? Does she sew her name into her shirt labels? Surely she can’t have lost the plot that badly.  
  
"No. My name. Say it. Say my _name_ , Doctor.”  
  
Oh. Ah. Yes, he remembers this bit. “Mistress,” he chokes out, because his mouth isn’t working quite right and his brain is just - gone.  
  
The last time this happened, things were somewhat different. He’d been younger and more comfortable with physical intimacy. She’d been, well, a man, and slightly less psychotic. And their history had been a little easier to explain. He swears he’d had a better handle on the situation then, and he knows he could take control again now, if he could only think straight.   
  
And her will is swarming around him, bright and buzzing, and he might not be susceptible to mind-control as such but he is obeying, sinking down to the floor, baring his neck to the sharp tip of her umbrella, her breath, and her teeth -   
  
"Do you know, I was a little worried you’d put up more of a fight. I do adore our little spats, but time is running short and I’m so glad we can cut to the chase. Besides, you’re beautiful when you’re on your knees."  
  
He whimpers, and it’s a pitiful noise, and pitiful is the last thing he needs to be right now. Any second now he’ll get up and do something clever and get back to saving the universe. He’ll get back to Clara. _Clara_. Remember her, remember why you’re here, remember who you are and why this is such a terrible, awful idea. He should, he will, he very nearly does.   
  
But he’s not. Instead she’s shoving him down and flinging her coat and skirt off with a flourish, fake-fruit hat tossed like a frisbee; instead he’s gripping her hips as she straddles him. She’s moaning theatrically, rucking his shirt up and his trousers down. She’s giggling and licking odd places on his face. He’s familiarizing himself with the nuances of this new body, the slight softness of her belly, the swell of her breasts. He gives her left nipple an experimental tweak and her gasp of pleasure is enough to undo what little was left of him to be undone.   
  
She digs her fingernails into his ribcage and fucks him, basically, into the ground. Her mind pressing into his as he thrusts into her, and he’s not sure where he ends and she starts, or vice-versa. He falls apart underneath her and she’s laughing.   
  
He doesn’t last all that long. She seems disappointed, which is replaced mostly by approval when he shrugs, rolls his eyes, gestures an apology, and shoves a hand between her legs. He’s got good hands this time around, whatever might be wrong with anything else: strong, long-fingered, eloquent. It doesn’t take much to push her over the edge.   
  
He rolls away, wipes his hand off on her shirt, and squeezes his eyes shut. This shouldn’t have happened. This can’t still be happening. “I’m going to stop you,” he says, breathing heavily.  
  
"I’m sure you’ll try." She smooths the wrinkles out of his coat, pulls one of her hairs off his shoulder. She pats his cheek affectionately, stands up, and presses a button on what he assumes is part of her TARDIS’s console.   
  
  
  
He comes to in a gutter. He can hear traffic, people chattering away, his hearts pounding in his chest. “That never happened,” he says aloud. He dusts himself off, straightens himself out, and starts running towards where he hopes the danger is.  
  
 _Be seeing you,_ a voice says inside his head. He pretends it’s just his imagination. 


End file.
